


Night

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 07:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14075862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Elrond offers Lindir a drink.





	Night

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Elrond finishes his letter just as his office door creeks open, his attendant slipping quietly inside. As always, Lindir hesitates for those first few steps, glancing at Elrond’s desk and likely trying to determine if he’s interrupting anything. He always has leave to enter Elrond’s office, and he often does amidst his duties, but centuries of service seem to have done little to lessen his fear of impropriety. Elrond makes it easier by placing his finished scroll aside and folding his hands over the countertop in its stead.

If Lindir needed breath, there would likely be a sharp intake of it. Instead, the room is silent as he moves to one of the large oak chairs set before Elrond’s desk. His delicate hands tuck into his lap, his head lowered in respect, eyes averted. When he’s starved himself too long and his affliction’s at its height, he always averts his eyes. In truth, Elrond thinks it a shame. Lindir’s dark eyes are just as beautiful when they’re flecked with red, almost glowing in their intensity and brightness. He murmurs in his lilting minstrel’s voice, “You summoned me, my lord?”

“Yes,” Elrond answers, and when Lindir doesn’t ask what for, Elrond simply provides: “It has been too long since you last fed, Lindir.”

Lindir all but winces. He opens his mouth once, showing off a small peek at the little fangs that line his mouth, before he closes up again. It takes a moment for him to tactfully reply, “I... am sorry, my lord. I will try not to allow my hunger to affect my duties...”

It hasn’t yet. Lindir has never been anything but a model servant. The trouble is that he’s become far more than that over the years, and Elrond can read him all too well. Now that it’s just the two of them in Elrond’s private office, Lindir won’t meet his eyes, but he knows that only last night, Lindir spent much of the evening’s feast watching Elrond when he thought Elrond wasn’t looking. Elrond caught every subtle glance. He’s seen the raw _hunger_ there, the sad, bitter longing, and it pains him to see Lindir weak and wanting. Yet Elrond knows he’s crossing a line even bringing up such things—Lindir’s affliction, though no secret, should be a private matter.

Elrond still tells him, quiet and full of understanding, “I did not call you to scold you, Lindir, but to offer you a solution. I know it must be difficult for you to ask others to aid you in such a way. ...But if you will have me, I offer myself to satiate your hunger.”

Propriety forgotten, Lindir’s head shoots up. His scarlet eyes go wide around the edges, plush lips parting. Elrond patiently waits out the shock, until Lindir’s cheeks blossom in colour, and he hurriedly blurts, “Oh, no, I could not possibly—”

“You could,” Elrond insists, though he does add, “I know that my blood is not pure, and I wish that it were so simply to assuage your taste, but I hope it might be enough to satisfy you, at least until you find an option you find more suitable.”

Somehow, despite the stillness of the blood immobile in his veins, Lindir’s face turns a deep red. He shakes his head, protesting, “N-no, my lord; it isn’t that! I would love to! I mean, I... I simply would be honoured to... ah... t... taste you, but... you are my _lord_ , and I could never...”

“Lindir,” Elrond murmurs, silencing Lindir’s fading pleas. Even as he looks at Lindir now, he can see the _want_ in Lindir’s eyes. Centuries of experience have made recognizing such signs impossible to miss. But as much as he can see Lindir’s desire, he can see Lindir’s shame. He takes the chance to rise from his deck, and he strolls around to the other side, settling down into the chair next to Lindir’s. From there, he reaches out to take one of Lindir’s warm hands in his. All the tales of old say that creatures with such afflictions are cold to the touch, but Lindir is none of the things that Elrond has read about. He gives Lindir’s hand a little squeeze and gently explains, “You do so much for me, and you must know by now that you mean far more to me than only a servant. I would be honoured to do this for you. It would be my pleasure if you would say yes.” 

Lindir quivers lightly in his grasp. Lindir looks down at where their hands are clasped together. Elrond already knows he’s won—Lindir never denies him anything when he directly asks.

Slowly, Lindir nods. He admits, “That... would be a dream come true.” Elrond smiles with encouragement and hope, and it seems to work—a nervous smiles tugs at Lindir’s lips as well.

When Elrond rises, Lindir follows, but Elrond keeps hold of Lindir’s hand anyway. He guides Lindir to the door at the back of his office, through and into his private study beyond, where even fewer have leave to interrupt him. The fireplace there is unlit, but the day is still warm and fair. Elrond takes his seat on the settee, and Lindir tentatively perches beside him. As Elrond’s fingers begin to unfasten his collar, Lindir’s eyes go wide again.

He watches, stock still and bleary-eyed, as Elrond reveals the long column of his throat. He draws his robes aside, exposing what he can without scandalizing his attendant. Lindir’s skin flushes deeper as he eyes the pale skin bared to him. Then he licks his lips, pink tongue flicking across his thin fangs, and he glances up to Elrond’s face, double-checking for permission.

No creature that devours blood has any business being as cute as Lindir is. He’s always lovely, soft and pretty, with the sweetest voice and the kindest words, but something about this state makes him absolutely breathtaking. He looks at Elrond in a mixture of fear, anxiety, and hope, like Elrond is a benevolent Valar that can grant his humble existence all he’s ever wanted. Elrond simply waits for him take it. 

First, Lindir whispers, “You do not have to do this...”

But Elrond doesn’t answer, because he knows, and it should be clear now that he wants to. He continues watching Lindir, open and inviting, until Lindir finally breaks and gives in to his desires. He shuffles closer, splays his trembling hand over Elrond’s robes, and leans in to Elrond’s throat.

Elrond expects the pain of a bite to come. He’s willing to endure it for Lindir, as long and hard as Lindir needs. But before he feels any teeth, Lindir’s velvety tongue swipes over his skin. Elrond shivers before he can stop himself. Lindir makes a gorgeous little whimper and licks at him again, lapping in broad circles until Elrond’s skin is slick and glistening.

Then the fangs come, but when they pierce his flesh, there is no real pain. There’s a brief, dull sting that swiftly dissipates, as though Lindir’s saliva has numbed him to it. Maybe it has. Maybe it’s time he learned more of Lindir’s curse, if a curse indeed it is. He knows that Lindir thinks it so. But as Lindir slides smoothly into him, Elrond can’t help but think that it isn’t nearly so cruel as he feared.

If anything, as Lindir’s lips spread around him, he can’t help but think it feels almost _good_. There’s a subtle thrill to the way that Lindir latches onto him, and a pleasant tingling from Lindir’s mouth against his skin. Then Lindir sucks at him, and Elrond shivers as his blood races to comply, rushing up into Lindir’s waiting throat. 

Lindir trembles far worse. He presses in, and the more he drinks, the more noises he makes, until he’s rumbling a deep moan over Elrond’s shoulder. The feeling of it is as exhilarating as the sound. Lindir slurps harder and whimpers, hips bucking shallowly and helplessly into Elrond’s side, but the movement isn’t jarring—it _fits_ : fits with the strange intimacy of the moment, the closeness of their bodies and the heat that Lindir stirs in him. He would wrap his arm around Lindir’s slender waist, pull Lindir tight against him, except that his body’s limp as Lindir uses it. Elrond can only surrender to that purpose.

And then it’s finished—Lindir is pulling slowly out of him and quickly licking over the holes left behind. It still doesn’t hurt. Lindir lovingly tends to Elrond’s wounds, and by the time that Lindir withdraws, Elrond’s sure there are no holes left to fix.

Sitting back, Lindir covers his mouth. His eyes are heavy-lidded, thickly dilated, and no longer quite as red. His brows knit together as he looks at Elrond, and his shyness seems to come back in droves. He mumbles brokenly, “I... apologize, my lord... I... I should not have...” 

As he trails off, Elrond leans forward, turning to press a tender kiss against Lindir’s flushed cheek. Elrond softly promises, “If my blood can sate you, then I offer it to you freely. It will always be available to you, whether you need to feed or simply wish to.”

Lindir whispers, “You taste divine,” and then turns an even brighter shade of red. Before Elrond can protest, Lindir’s slipped off the settee. The colour is back in his body, the bounce back in his step. He practically glows as he dips into a bow, and when he rises, he manages a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

And then he turns on his heel and rushes from the room, too quick for Elrond to stop. Elrond remains where he is, feeling somewhat heavy and tired, but glad of it. 

Sighing fondly, Elrond returns to his day.


End file.
